The Opposite of a Furry Little Problem
by Omnicat
Summary: Shiro isn't Shiro, he says. Shiro isn't safe, he says. The space mice will decide that for themselves, thankyouverymuch. / Kuron-centric, AU based on S3 to S6


**Title:** The Opposite of a Furry Little Problem

 **Author:** Omnicat

 **Spoilers & Desirable Foreknowledge:** Dreamworks' _Voltron: Legendary Defender_ , seasons 1 through 3.

 **Warnings:** None.

 **Characters & Relationships:** Kuron & the Space Mice

 **Summary:** Shiro isn't Shiro, he says. Shiro isn't _safe_ , he says. The space mice will decide that for themselves, thankyouverymuch.

 **Author's Note:** I am working off the assumption that the Shiro that appears in season 3 is a clone or something along those lines. I'm not usually comfortable writing stuff that'll be jossed so soon, but my need for Kuron to be okay is too overwhelming. Enjoy!

 **II-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-I-oOo-I-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-II**

 **The Opposite of a Furry Little Problem**

His plan was foolproof. Slap a _sturdy_ cuff on his right arm to keep the weaponized mode from activating, get himself locked in one of the castle's cells, have all outgoing communications capabilities cut off, and don't let anyone talk to him about anything even remotely capable of giving away sensitive information. It made having conversations practically impossible. No 'how's the weather in this part of space?', no 'anything new for dinner tonight?' – actually, no food but the ship's native goo, period. No clothes or knickknacks that hadn't already been on the ship when 'he' disappeared, no updates on the team's progress.

Nobody liked it much, but whatever worked. As long as the others couldn't unanimously agree to put him in a stasis pod, this was the next best thing.

Even if he might go out of his mind with boredom.

"I will not go out of my mind with boredom," he told himself firmly. "I am a tr– no, I – I have the memories and mental faculties of a trained astro-explorer. I have all the tools and skills I need to cope with prolonged isolation and inactivity."

So he meditated some more. And ran through his exercise routine again. And played some more Altean video games.

And he definitely did _not_ think himself into a rut because of the obscene amounts of time on his hands.

"I am _not_ thinking myself into a rut!" he declared with every ounce of authority he could muster. "Ugh."

He scrubbed his hands down his face, buried his fingers in his hair, leaned his elbows heavily on his knees, and just... left himself there. Numbly and mutely, he stared at the floor between his feet.

What did he have to think about, anyway? Nothing but stolen thoughts and hostile programming. Nothing he had any right to, or wanted. Nothing of his own. Not even a name.

The tiniest scraping sound broke through the dull fog of his thoughts. He looked up and around. What...?

Something whacked him on top of the head.

Yelping, he leaped sideways and rolled into a fighting stance, eyes shooting to the ceiling. A small panel had come loose and fallen down somehow. Something rustled in the darkness beyond the opening, and –

Allura's mice stuck their little pastel heads through.

All of Shiro's muscles relaxed at once. (His. _His_ muscles. Not Shiro's. That wasn't his name.) He stood up straight.

"Hey, you," he said quietly. "What are you doing here?"

One by one, the mice leaped from the hole in the ceiling onto the bed, squeaking as they bounced. He didn't know their names, he realized. They were all called variations on Chupachup and Pulule or something, but hell if he could remember what variations, let alone which mouse they belonged to. He – well, Shiro – had quickly memorized them when the paladins first settled into the Castle of Lions, but the mice didn't seem to find him very interesting. They interacted rarely, so Shiro had allowed himself to forget.

The little blue one flew the wrong way and threatened to hit the unforgiving ground. Shi– he darted forward, hands outstretched, and snatched the mouse from the air. The move sent him to his knees, but the mouse was safe in the crook of his fingers.

"Easy, easy," he said, lowering his hands to the bed. When he opened them, the mouse spilled out, wobbling on its tiny legs. "Are you okay?"

Squeaking, little blue raised a front paw and collapsed on its back.

He smiled, faintly and crookedly. "Well, I guess you'll live." He took in the little troupe, big yellow now sniffing little blue, while the pink one looked on from a distance and the other blue mouse, darker and narrow-faced, approached him. "What are you all doing here? The door is locked for a reason, you know. Haven't you heard the news?"

Narrow-face climbed up against his hand and took his thumb between its front paws. It sniffed and prodded and turned his thumb to and fro.

"Ah. You _have_."

Little blue sat up, shook itself, and joined narrow-face, followed by the pink and yellow ones.

"Coran and the Princess couldn't find anything different about me on a biological level," he mused. "But maybe they were thinking too complicatedly."

Together, they studied his hand in their simple mousey ways, and then clambered up his arm and across his shoulders, into his collar and through his hair. His heart twinged, but it was hard to stay sad when he was being tickled in four places. Eventually, they all converged on his shoulders and had a chattering conversation.

He looked from the pair on the left to the pair on the right. "So what's the verdict?"

The mice exchanged one last look and then shrugged their shoulders and raised the palms of their front paws as one. It was such a human gesture it almost distracted him from the meaning.

Almost.

He forced himself to smile. "I see. I'm sorry, though. I'm not him. And you can't stay here."

Gently, ever so careful not to hurt them, he took the mice from his shoulders and set them atop the little ceiling panel they'd sabotaged.

"It's not safe to be around me. The Galra sent me here for a reason, and it can't be anything good. Until we know what their plan was, we can't take any chances." Standing on the bed, he held the surprised mice on their little platform up to the hole in the ceiling. "Go on, shoo. Get out of here before you worry Allura."

The mice looked over the edge of the tile and squeaked down at him indignantly.

His eyebrows drew together with regret. "Please. I don't want to hurt you."

The mice streamed down his arm in a squeaking, fuzzy pastel flood. The pink one crawled onto his shoulder and stayed there, while the others made their way down to the bed again. There, they turned toward each other and – he had no other words for it – took on tiny little mouse personas.

Big yellow puffed itself up to its full height and strutted around like it owned the place, shoulders back and mouse-biceps flexed. Little blue, meanwhile, made itself tiny and burrowed into the sheet, humming contentedly and bobbing its head in place. Its ears looked huge compared to its body. And narrow-face brushed a lock of fur back on its forehead, imitating his botched white forelock, and... started shuffling around like a zombie. Paws raised, tiny fingers curled into claws, teeth bared and gnawing at nothing, head lolling and eyes rolling and crazy-looking.

Narrow-face and big yellow strutted around in circles a few times before moving toward each other. Narrow-face mimed sticking its right paw in the air, forming a 'glowing blade' with its fingers, and jabbing at big yellow. Spotting narrow-face, big yellow responded by drawing its tail like a sword and coming at the rendering of brainwashed-him. They fought until they both struck each other at the same time, staggered, and collapsed into each other's arms, weeping profusely and rending their head fur.

Then narrow-face abruptly turned away to resume its zombie-walk. It marched past little blue, looked it up and down, and demonstratively turned its head away, itty-bitty whiskered nose in the air, and shuffled on. The dismissal was clear.

The pink mouse pointed at the spectacle and squeaked in his ear.

'Do you see?' it seemed to say. 'Do you understand?'

He swallowed thickly and blinked several times in rapid succession.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I doubt the Galra would care about you mice the way they do Voltron and the team."

Yellow, blue and narrow-face let out a happy mouse cheer. When he sat back down on the bed, they clambered all over him and happily chattered away in their incomprehensible mouse language. The pink one made itself comfortable in his collar, pressed beneath his jaw, and big yellow curled up in his left hand, almost purring as he tenderly stroked its soft, warm little back.

He had no idea what they were telling him, or who had sent them – if it had been one of the humans or Alteans who were responsible in the first place. But he was grateful for the company.

And if a lone tear, hidden from the cameras by his bent head, found its way into little blue's fur, well... it seemed more interested in the unusual taste than in tattling, anyway.


End file.
